At the Training Camp Outside the Capital
The morning sun crept slowly above the horizon, dew still heavy on the ropes of the tents. The air was damp, but the training yard was already alive with soldiers and recruits. The clash of practice blades and the stomp of boots on muddy ground filled the camp like a restless hive.
Captain Raun stood at the edge of the field, his gaze sharp and unyielding. His voice cut through the noise:
— "Today I want no hesitant strikes. Swing as if your enemy seeks your life, not just your armor."
The groups stepped into the circles marked on the earth. The first bout called was between Kaizlan and Milo.
They tightened their grip on the wooden blades, eyes locked, caught between resolve and unease.
Raun barked:
— "Begin!"
Milo struck first, a quick slash toward Kaizlan's shoulder. Kaizlan blocked, but the surprising force drove him two steps back. He countered with a low strike, which Milo slipped aside before lunging from the flank.
Wood rang against wood, echoing across the yard. The watching recruits murmured:
— "Milo's faster than I thought."
— "But Kaizlan… he doesn't yield easily."
Sweat dripped down Kaizlan's brow. He recalled his father's words: "A shield means nothing if you never learn when to strike."
In a sudden shift, he pressed forward, pushing Milo back.
Milo grinned through the strain:
— "That's it, Kaizlan! Don't hold the blade like it frightens you."
At last, Kaizlan knocked Milo's sword from his grasp. Both stood panting, drained yet unbroken.
Raun raised his hand:
— "Kaizlan… the round is yours."
His eyes moved to Milo:
— "But that spirit in you… I have not seen its like in years."
On the Other Side of the Yard
Eiron faced Toren. The difference was plain: Eiron shorter, compact with muscle, while Toren loomed heavier and taller.
At the call to start, Toren swung hard, a crushing overhead strike that rattled Eiron's blade. But Eiron bent low, slipping beneath it, and thrust cleanly at Toren's side.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Even Raun's brow arched in approval.
Toren caught the thrust at the last second, locking both hands on his sword. With a grunt he shoved forward, slamming his shoulder into Eiron. The clash turned into a brutal contest, each strike carrying the intent to end it.
Then, just for a heartbeat, Toren faltered—his balance slipped. Eiron seized the moment, pressing his blade to Toren's throat.
Raun's voice rang sharp:
— "Enough! Eiron takes the victory."
At the Edge of the Field
Serin watched silently, her face unreadable. A recruit beside her muttered:
— "Are you… taking notes on everyone?"
Her reply was cool, cutting:
— "Battle is not a spectacle. Mistakes must be carved into memory, or they'll be carved into flesh."
The words left a hush among those who heard them.
In the Capital — A Chamber of House Mortani
At that same hour, while blades clashed in the camp, Seraphiel Mortani sat over a sprawling map with two advisors.
One spoke in a low, urgent tone:
— "If the rumors of a northern alliance prove true, we must prepare now. Any hesitation will erode our standing at court."
Seraphiel traced a finger along the inked lines of rivers and borders. His voice was calm, assured:
— "Let the others race to pledge their loyalties. We… will wait. And when the moment comes, they will all need us."
A faint smile curved his lips—less joy than calculation, the smile of a man who saw politics as nothing more than another battlefield.